


Dean Winchester Is Too Manly For Buttsex

by buttcat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is such a fucking bottom I'm not sorry, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, do I even need to write a description for this you know what it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 17:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2437130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcat/pseuds/buttcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>penetration is for GIRLS Dean is not a girl fuck you</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean Winchester Is Too Manly For Buttsex

Sexual shit never bothered Dean before. Not ever. Dean is the master of getting girls off. He has a damn talented tongue, and that's a fact.

Except now suddenly things are coming up with Sam that, well, just _hadn't_ when he'd been with strictly girls.

Sam having a dick isn't really the problem. Actually, it's kinda a bonus. He likes Sam's dick, the blood-warm, generous heft of it in his hand or mouth. It's the - the other stuff.

The butt stuff.   

 _He_ wasn't planning on mentioning it, ever, so of course it's Sam who brings it up, tactlessly, during a (stellar, if Dean might say so himself) blowjob.

Sam is seated on a motel bed, long legs slung over the side. Dean is going down on him like a champ, lots of fancy tongue-swirling and sloppy spittle action. He's not able to fit Sam's entire cock inside his mouth, but he figures he makes up for it in other areas. So everything is going fine, as per usual, and then Sam decides to be a fucking freaky weirdo. As per usual.

"Fuck," Sam pants above him. "Dean, please - f-finger me - "

Dean pulls off. Sam's dick bobs dumbly against his thigh and he keens in complaint, hands tugging in Dean's short-cropped hair. 

Dean ignores this. "What?" he asks, looking up. Sam's face is far away, preceded by miles and miles of hard, tanned torso, but Dean can still see the desperate, shameless want coiled tense in his brother's features.  

"Put your fingers in my - c'mon, man, please," Sam begs. "I gotta -  _please."_

Dean has to mull over each word before belatedly his brain catches up with the program and is able to provide an appropriate response. "Hell no," he says. "Gross, dude."

At the top of Sam's freaky giraffe body, light years away, a bitchface is pulled. "Dean," Sam says. "Literally you have my dick in your mouth."

"Not right now, I don't," Dean points out. "And I won't, if you keep insisting on - on _that."_

"Fucking fine," Sam grumbles, crumbling at the threat of  _no blowjobs tonight._ Dean smirks, wobbles forward on his knees, and mouths at the base of Sam's cock.

"Okay yes  _please,"_ Sam says. He jerks his hips up so his cock's rubbing against Dean's cheek. Dean, because he is the fucking best big brother in the entire world, takes him back into his mouth. Sam sighs blissfully.

He's watching Sam's face carefully to judge his reactions, which is why he notices right away when Sam sucks two of his fingers into his mouth, wets them until they're dripping, and reaches back behind himself. 

He stills with the head of Sam's cock resting just inside his lips.

"Don't - stop - " Sam pants, and Dean acquiesces because _hell_ at least Sam's not asking  _him_ to do it anymore, and he gladly keeps his hand pumping along his shaft, licking and sucking gently at the head, tries not to imagine what's happening inches away from his face with those long, strong fingers.

He can see Sam's arm fumbling around a bit, squirming back and forth, and then he has to press forward on Sam's hips with his free forearm because the kid's all of the sudden bucking like he's trying to throw Dean off. He'd worry that he was hurting or something - shit, it'd only make sense, given where he's currently shoved his fingers - but Sam's making those anxious, thin, reedy noises he does when he's about to fucking blow, and hard, so Dean keeps at it, allowing another inch or so of Sam's cock into his mouth.

" _Oh,"_ Sam gasps, and he's coming down Dean's throat, hot and thick, body vibrating in place like a washing machine. 

Dean keeps himself latched on to Sam's cock as he finishes up and pulls off only when the great galoot flops boneless back onto the bed, both arms splayed out over his head (and not, thankfully, stuck anywhere unsavory). 

"Holy fuck," Sam says, his voice rough and fucked-out. He makes a couple satisfied post-orgasm noises, contended little hums that grow up from the pit of his throat. 

"Go wash your hands, dude," Dean tells him.

"Too tired."

"M'not kidding, Sam. Not gonna sleep in this fucking bed with you unless you scrub up."

Sam snorts and rolls off. When he comes back he smells like generic hotel soap and lavender hand creme.   

 

This is not the last time the whole butt stuff debate arises, as it is a rule that Sam is persistent and awful in all things. It is, of all things, a rugaru's lair, and not their impressive sex life, which inspires their next conversational foray into that particular area. 

The rugaru is dead and burned, and they're just doing the necessary clean-up, picking through the guy's disgusting rancid basement hideaway for survivors (not likely) or partially eaten bodies to salt and burn (more likely). Among other things, they find a half-baked bloated corpse that deflates and gushes out of the side when Dean nudges it with his boot.

Sam, the huge baby, shrieks girlishly and dances out of the way, so of course it's Dean's brotherly duty to snag an unidentifiable bit of gore on the end of a stick and chase Sam around with it a little. Dean smells fetid-sweet afterwards and he has to change outside before he gets into his baby but Sam makes the best fucking noises when he's grossed out, so it's totally worth it. 

"You are squeamish about the weirdest things," Sam informs him later, after a shower, as they're waiting for their dinner at a nondescript diner.

"I - what? Are we having the same conversation here?" 

"Organ slush? Blowflies? No problem. But put anything anywhere  _near_ an ass and - "

"I wouldn't wanna fuck a corpse either, dude," Dean says.

"Uh, I should hope so. I'm just saying, dead shit and anal are entirely different levels of gross."

"Do you _know_ how much dead shit I've seen in my life?" Dean says. "A whole fucking lot. The - the insides of asses, though? Not so much."

"Huh," says Sam. He's got his thinking face on, the one he pulls out when he's devising a plot to entrap a fugly. Usually Dean doesn't mind this face - Sam's good with the planning, what can he say - but right now it's making the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

"Sam,  _what - "_ he starts to say, and then their apron'd waitress arrives with a bacon hamburger for Dean and a salad for Sam and it shuts him up right quick. 

 

After this Sam starts bringing up his ass a lot. He guides Dean's hands down into the seat of his pants during makeout sessions, coercing him to squeeze and explore. He rubs up against Dean ass-first like a giant, horny, horrible cat, and plops himself down to perform half-naked lapdances, grinding and gyrating like a stripper desperate to pay the rent. Dean comes with his dick trapped between Sam's clenched upper thighs, cradled between his bare ass cheeks. Dean continues to refuse any requests to put his extremities actually inside Sam, maintaining that it'd be gross and weird and pretty fucking gay.

Sam is not having this.  

It all comes to a head in a rare moment of quiet, a soft moment between chasing vague leads from Bobby and hunting down as-of-yet-unbroken seals passed on to them through Angel Airways. Dean's taking a long, steamy shower, determined to eat up every drop of hot water their motel has available. It is very nice.   

When he comes out of the bathroom, Sam's on his knees and elbows on the bed, ass tipped high into the air, three fingers slick and pumping into himself. 

 _Pink,_ Dean thinks, and then,  _wet,_ and he's never got so hard so fast in his entire goddamn life. 

"I want you to fuck me," Sam says.

 _No fucking shit,_ Dean thinks. What he says is, "uh."

"Please, Dean," Sam begs, tossing his head back. He's moving his wrist and his hips in tandem, working his pelvis back as he pushes forward with his hand, legs spread wide and vulgar. His muscled thighs and lower back are shiny with lube and his cock is bobbing free at his belly, dripping at the tip.

Sam says something else in his breathy take-me-now voice but Dean misses it as he drops his towel and surges forward, slams onto the bed behind his long, bent legs. Somewhere, at the very, very back of Dean's mind, there's a little voice going _what the fuck, dude, ew,_ but it's all but drowned out by the flood of hunger and need that's left him shuddery and starved.

He kneels behind his brother, leans in close so he can see those fingers work in and out, get swallowed into Sam's body up to the last knuckle.

"Shit, Sam, let me," he babbles, tugging at Sam's solid wrist. Sam whines but complies, pulling out and tilting his hips up farther.  

Dean grabs at either side of Sam's ass, pulls outward so he can see him stretch wetly open. "Fuck," he says in awe. He lets go with one hand, runs his finger around the outside, exploring the delicate flesh, and then pushes, ever so gently, in.

Sam clings around him, hot and wet and still so tight, even though he'd been stretching himself probably the whole time Dean'd been in the shower. Dean imagines easing his cock inside that slippery heat and has to stop and squeeze at himself.  

"More," Sam says, unwilling to suffer through a pause. He shoves a thin bottle across the bedspread at his brother. "Lube," he adds.

Dean adds a decent amount to his index and middle fingers and presses them both inside Sam at once, a little deeper this time. He's paralyzed by the squeeze, intense enough to press his two fingers together.   

Sam has no patience for this. "Don't just sit there, Jesus," he complains. 

"Fucking demanding bitch," Dean says, but there's no sting to it, and he shifts his hand back, forward, back, forward again and far enough this time that his bottom set of knuckles kiss up against the taught skin.

Sam takes him genially, nudges back with encouraging little circles of his hips. Dean becomes brave enough to stretch his fingers apart inside, marveling at how open he's able to spread Sam with just those two fingers, forcing him wide and empty. Sam snuffles a muffled little cry into the pillow.

"Sammy? You okay?" Dean checks.

" _Yes,_ Dean, Jesus. I've been okay, fucking, just. Just fuck me already, please, Dean," he whines, and how could Dean ever say no to that. He lubes up his dick and presses the head at Sam's entrance and has a brief panic attack, Sam so small and pink and tight against him, and he's seen far more go into far less but that was porn and this is his _baby brother_. He's got half a mind to scoot over and stick his fingers back in, maybe not even put in his dick at all but instead jerk himself off and Sammy too, but Sam cuts off his deliberation by leaning right back into him.

Sam just _gives,_ lets him in so easy, the first inch sliding by no problem at all, and holy shit it's warm and sweet and slick. He can feel Sam clench around him, his muscles shifting and trembling, and it's just too much. His good intentions sputter out. The little voice that's going _don't hurt Sammy can't hurt keep him safe_ shuts the fuck up and shrugs its metaphorical shoulders.  

"Sam, I can't," he gasps, and Sam flails at him.

"Do it, Dean, feels good, _do it,"_ Sam demands, and Dean gives in. He slams into his brother, hips pulling back and then forward again, doing his best to bury himself inside deep as he can. The drag of soft skin against his cock is so good and it's hard to think, hard to plan out because it's _Sam,_  he's _inside_ Sam, his brother's swallowing him up and hugging him like a second goddamn skin.  

Still Dean Winchester is nothing if not a considerate lover, and so he does that swivel thing with his hips that the girls always seem to really like, and turns out it works on bitchy little brothers, too, because Sam whines and claws at the thin bed sheets. 

"Right there, Dean, fuck," he gasps, and then he makes a whole bunch of little nonsense sounds that Dean understands as glowing, if not very eloquent, praise for his dick. Dean keeps on hammering into him, twisting to get at the deepest parts of him, and Sam squirms and gasps and rocks back against each forward thrust.

"Keep - fucking, feel so good, _Dean,"_ Sam says. His hand is working away at his dick, hard and fast, and Dean feels a pang of sympathy for him. Logically Sam's got the short end of the stick, here, having Dean give it to him and with only his own hand for relief, except - . Except. He looks like he really enjoys it. Not tolerating or taking one for the team, like really, legitimately enjoying getting fucked hard up the ass, with panting and hair-tossing and sheet-clenching and the whole nine yards. It's typical Sam-in-bed behavior, but he didn't expect it to show up here.  

Dean would worry about this more, only Sam's fucking soft and tight around him and it's really, really hard to think. Sam's hand is speeding up and he's pushing back more urgently than before, shaking all over, and Dean obliges him and picks up his own pace, slamming into him over and over.

" _Dean,"_ Sam says. "Fuck. Don't stop, don't -  _Dean - "_  

The pressure around his cock intensifies and spasms and sucks at him, and it dawns on him, blindingly, that Sam is coming while he's inside of him, and it is this thought that pushes him fast and ruthless over the precipice. He comes hard in his brother, grinding into him deep as his orgasm is crushed out of him. 

Sam slumps down on the bed. Dean follows him, collapsed over his back.    

"Wet spot," Sam grumbles.

"Mm-hmm," Dean replies, and falls asleep. 

 

The next morning Sam is bitchy over waking up crusty and sticky. Dean fucks him until he shuts up.

This whole anal sex thing? Not so bad. Pretty decent, actually. Dean'd never stoop to _thanking_ his dickhead brother for seducing him into it, but, privately, he is glad. Publicly, he slugs Sam on the arm and calls him a little bitch. And then fucks him bent over a cheap motel table.

The balance is restored. And then Bobby calls them with a witch hunt, and there's no one else to do the job, so they go.

 

The hunt's about what you'd expect - vomit, blood, razors and bobby pins where they shouldn't be, tiny sad bones in velvet hex bags. Some girl tries to curse a gay dude into falling in love with her, and when she accidentally-on-purpose kills him when it doesn't work out, his ex-boyfriend takes up witchery in revenge. There's an escalating web of hexes and counter-hexes and at the end of the day, everyone is sore and angry at each other and nothing productive has occurred at all.    

"You think maybe someday you'd let me... y'know?" Sam asks out of nowhere as they drive away in the Impala, witches left two towns behind.

"No, I do not know," Dean snaps. He's not in the mood for cyclical vague conversations. Fucking witches. "New policy," he adds. "Every book of black magic we find, we burn. Fuck your archival shit."

Sam doesn't put up an argument which really ought to set off Dean's alarms. Instead, he hums softly and settles back into the passenger seat, following the scenery out the window with his eyes and avoiding Dean's gaze until they're back in the motel parking lot.   

Sam is on him immediately as soon as they're through the door to their room, licking into Dean's mouth and ravishing his lips. Dean takes this turn of events in stride, pressing his younger brother up against the door and kissing back with equal ferocity. Sam wastes no time at all, fumbling his hands between them and undoing Dean's zipper, stripping his jeans down to his knees. He squeezes at Dean's ass with one giant fucking bear paw, the other tugging at the elastic to his boxers. The hand gropes around a little, shifts to the center, up, between Dean's ass cheeks - 

"Okay woah  _no,"_ Dean says. He retreats a safe distance.  

"Dean, c'mon," Sam says.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Dean, please?"

"No way. That shit's for chicks and gay dudes."

Sam stares at him for a moment, brain clearly overtaxed by this brilliant argument.

"I'm not even going to respond to that," he finally says. "I just think - it'd be really hot, man. I really wanna see you. Please? For me?"  

"I dunno, Sammy," Dean says, but he knows it's too late. Those fucking puppy dog eyes. 

"Just once," Sam wheedles. "Once and then if you don't like it, we'll never do it again."

"Holy shit," Dean says. "Fine, princess. Once. And then  _never again._ "

"Thanks, Dean," Sam says, face bright. "You're gonna - it'll be awesome. I'll make it so good, I promise. C'mere, on the bed - "

They get situated on the bed, Dean totally naked, Sam in boxers. Sam manhandles Dean around until he's got his back to his chest, Dean's head tucked handily underneath Sam's chin. His breath is hot and moist at the back of Dean's skull. Dean does not really understand how this position would facilitate butt fucking, but Sam's the expert here, so he'll bow to his superior intellect. 

Sam strokes his hands over Dean's arm, down the curve of his waist, back up again. He pinches at Dean's nipples, twisting and pulling them away from his chest, then petting around them gently.   

"Oh my God, fucking get it over with," Dean says, when Sam gives no indication of ever moving on from his nipples. "Quit it with the foreplay. Fuck me or whatever." 

Sam stills behind him. "Dude. I can't just _fuck you or whatever_. First off, you gotta be relaxed and ready because I don't wanna hurt you, dipshit. Second, I'm not even planning on getting my dick in you - did you think I was just gonna shove it in? Jesus, dude."  

"If you're not gonna fuck me, what the hell is the point," Dean says. 

"Uh, I dunno, getting you  _comfortable?_ Letting you actually  _enjoy this shit?"_

"Good fucking luck with that," Dean says. Sam takes a deep breath, lets it out.

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," Sam says.

"No fucking  _way,_ asshole," Dean snaps. "You talked me into this, you gotta see it through. Come the fuck on and  _fuck me."_

"Fucking fine," Sam grumbles. "At least try to enjoy it, Jesus. Fold your leg up."

"Fold my - what?" 

" _Your leg._ Bend it up - no, the top one, idiot. Right, like that." 

"I feel stupid."

"You are stupid. Stay still." 

Dean hears the lube bottle click open and shut. Sam shifts down a little, so that his mouth is even with the base of Dean's neck, and ghosts his lubed-up hand downward. It strays past Dean's ass cheeks, curls up. His thumb caresses his thigh.

Sam presses soft, warm kisses against Dean's neck, and strokes his fingers forward - ah. Okay. Right. That is the wet pad of his index finger, crooked and rubbing around Dean's hole.

All fucking right then.

It strokes around him, gentle, and then passes over him. Sam inhales behind him, a little soft gasp. 

"That's you," he breathes. 

"Gngh," Dean says. 

Sam pushes forward a little, not enough to breach him, but enough to feel him out, process the delicate wrinkled flesh, the tight rim. Sam kneads and presses, testing, mapping him out by touch.

It feels weird. Not bad, but - weird. He's heating up in a way he's never felt before, hot want blossoming in his gut and urging him to push back against the finger, get _more_. He refuses to entertain it because of _dignity_ and  _manhood_ and other probably useless things that are slowly drifting out of his mind at the touch of Sam's finger against him.   

"I'm gonna - " Sam warns, and the pad of his finger presses against him, dips in a little, pulls out. Dean whimpers a little. It is a very manly whimper.

"Are you - that okay?" Sam asks.

"S'fine," Dean grunts. He wiggles his hips a little, lets the finger press into him again. He whimpers a second time. 

"Okay," says Sam, like he's realized something, the bastard. Dean shifts against him - not back towards him, dammit, just a sort of side-to-side thing. Sam is brilliant and a genius and he presses in further, past the first knuckle, then back out again.

" _Oh,"_ Dean hisses, skin on skin inside him, raw tug and pull and slide in his untouched spaces. This time he does jerk his hips back as Sam presses in again, seeking out more of that sweet steady drag, deeper, further. He can feel Sam smile against the back of his neck.

"Feels good?" Sam says. He kisses Dean's spine, hot and open-mouthed. Dean melts into it, a perfect soft waypoint to balance the heat blooming inside him. 

"It's -  _ah._ It's okay."  _  
_

"Only okay? Maybe I should - " Sam says, and he's withdrawing his fucking finger and _shifting away -_ _  
_

"Don't you fucking dare," Dean snaps, pressing back at him. Sam chuckles low and dirty.

"If you insist," he says, and he's easing in deeper -  _fuck,_ Sam's got huge fingers - and deeper until that's Sam's entire finger inside him, firm and hot, pumping back and then forward again, lighting him up and pressing him open. 

"You think you can take another one?" Sam asks.

"Yes, fuck, Sam. Sam, _please,"_ Dean says. Sam pulls out and there's another finger, bigger than the first, both of them nudging against him at once, and  _fuck,_ maybe he can't. Maybe he was too hasty, but still he wants Sam inside him, large and unforgiving and spreading him wide, and those fingers push and push and then they're inside him, both of them. They ease up into him all the way and he's so fucking full, stuffed with his brother. Sam doesn't even have to move his hand anymore, Dean doing the work for him, fucking himself back onto Sam's thick fingers. Sam bends them just a little bit, prods around, and _holy shit -_ ice shatters up his spine, almost too big and bright but good, fucking Christ so good and electric and raw.

" _Sam!"_ he cries out. "Sammy, fuck - "

"Mm, there we are," Sam croons. He searches out that spot again, strokes over it every third thrust or so, and pressure builds and builds behind Dean's abdomen until he's nearly crying from the strain, the solidness of it. He's aware that he's mumbling nonsense - _Sam, Sammy, Sam, so good, don't stop -_ and he doesn't care, electricity sparking through him, seizing up his chest. And then Sam stretches his fingers apart a little, drags and pulls against his inner walls and holds him open, and Dean seizes up with pleasure, the world flashes white and bright around him and _fuck oh fuck_  he can't - 

"Did you just - ?" Sam says.

"Shut up. No."

"You did. Oh, fuck, you totally did."

"Fuck off." 

"You  _came._ You came and I didn't even touch you," Sam says, except instead of the mocking laughter Dean'd expected, he sounds almost reverent. Amazed. Dean looks back at him and sees that Sam's fisting his cock wildly, panting, mouth agape.

"You liked it so much - you liked having my fingers in you that much, huh? Liked me filling you up? Stretching you open? Jesus fucking Christ Dean I bet you wanna ride me so bad, feel all of me inside of you, fucking whore for my cock - _oh holy fuck Dean - "_

Sam gasps and bites down on Dean's shoulder and he's coming across his lower back, hitting his skin in forceful stripes - one, two, three - and he keeps on worrying at the flesh on Dean's shoulder even once he's finished, licking and sucking at it, broad chest heaving.  

Dean figures he should be panicking, but he's just so limp and sated that he can't bring himself to care. Sam wipes them both off with the bed sheets, pulls Dean into his chest.

"Not so bad, huh?" he says.

Dean gurgles at him.

He doesn't complain about butt stuff ever again.


End file.
